


Party at the End of the World

by patentpending



Series: 13 Days of no-longer Halloween [8]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Ballroom Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Lamp - Freeform, M/M, Survival Horror, Thinly Veiled Criticism of Society, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 06:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21239597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patentpending/pseuds/patentpending
Summary: The rules are simple, really - don’t take off your mask and survive.  Romantic LAMP





	Party at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Oh heck it's almost Halloween, better dump all the stories I wrote last year onto AO3
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Non-graphic violence, minor character death

The apocalypse began on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday.

Theories varied on if it originated from some disease, dredged out of the deepest, most rural parts of the rainforest, or if it had been carried by migrating bats, or was due to biological warfare, but, regardless, on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday, a man in the southern United States died.

He woke up half an hour later and promptly ate the mortician.

The whole affair was rather fun at first. Sci-fi geeks had been preparing for the zombie apocalypse for years, and the bunker industry faced a boom, at least while the cash economy had held up. The first wave of the walking dead was quickly eliminated by a crash of trigger-happy horror enthusiasts and assorted military squadrons. The threat was defeated, the apocalypse was over, and humanity collectively gave each other a bit ol’ high-five and went back to trying to kill each other instead of the undead.

At least, that’s what everyone thought.

But the zombie virus, or the _immortuos_ virus, as scientists called it before all their labs burned, was like any other virus - it adapted. 

They looked like humans when they were first infected. It took a few days after first consumption for the decomposition to begin. Only sign then was skin - dark yellow spots spanning the bridge of your nose and across your cheeks.

They acted like humans when they first turned, too. They could walk, talk, eat, breathe. For all intents and purposes, they were alive. All the virus did was install a hunger in them. An unbearable, insatiable hunger. Once they took that first bite of flesh - and they all did eventually - the virus fully awoke and began to hunt.

The new zombies were far more clever than the first. They hid like sleeper agents, biding their time, and then, they feasted.

By the time what was left of humanity realized what had happened, it was too late. Established governments fell, the cash-based economy crumbled, lines of communication broke down, and - Virgil’s personal least favorite - the internet died.

The vast majority of the population was wiped out by the second wave, leaving only the dredges of humanity behind. As it turned out, the meak did not inherit the Earth; the dangerous ruled it.

The mask was cool and heavy in Virgil’s hands. Gingerly, he brought it to his face, biting his lip as it settled against his cheekbones. It cooled the nervous, feverish flush on his cheeks as he fumbled to tie the ribbons behind his head.

“It’s just a bit crookedy there, kiddo,” a soft, familiar voice interrupted, and Virgil turned around to see Patton, freckles hidden behind a mask that spanned his forehead and looped down to cover his eyes and cheeks. Beaded strands hung over his mouth.

“Will you get it for me?” Virgil asked.

Patton stepped behind him, reaching up to tie the black silken ribbons, fingers brushing through Virgil’s hair.

“Are you nervous?” Patton asked, finishing the neat bow and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Always.” Virgil laughed ironically. “You?”

Patton did the same. “Always.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Virgil said, trying to pretend it was true.

“Rations are almost out, kiddo. Just a few crackers and cans left.” Patton tried a smile. “It won’t be too bad. All we have to do is…”

“Survive,” Virgil finished grimly. “Yeah, I know.”

“Ro and Lo ready?”

“I’ll check.”

Virgil padded through the small church. It was infested with the dead when they first found it, almost a month ago. Some infected congregation member simply waited until everyone was seated in the rickety pews then locked the doors.

“Are you decent?” Virgil called, rapping lightly at the door that once led to the choir room.

“Morally?” Roman asked, and Virgil could hear the smile in his voice. “Never.”

“I meant are you wearing pants, Princey.”

The distinct sound of shuffling fabric came from within. “We are now!”

Virgil swung open the door, smirking. “Well, now I’m just disappointed.”

“That does appear to be Roman’s speciality.” Logan, smoothing down his hair, smirked back as Roman spluttered.

“Get your masks on,” Virgil instructed, ignoring the offended Roman noises. “We need to leave now if we’re going to make it.”

He crept back across the sanctuary, automatically ignoring the creaking spots in the ancient floors. Lights, music, sound - anything that could attract attention was a bad idea. They had learned that quick.

“Everything good?” Patton asked, looking small and tired in the light streaming through the stained glass windows.

Virgil’s chest ached, and he reached out to take his hand. “It will be.”

“Don’t you mean ‘zom-be’?”

Despite everything, Virgil snorted a laugh. “My zom-bad.”

Patton was gracious enough to giggle at that, but the kiss that came a moment later was nothing but genuine.

Roman and Logan joined them a few minutes later, faces hidden behind masquerade masks. They didn’t say much, just swallowed down apprehension and nodded.

Outside, Virgil squeezed Patton’s hand, just once, and let go. It was better to have both hands free.

His baseball bat thumped against his leg with each step through the forest, a comforting weight at his side.

What little conversation passed between them on the trip through the forest was stilted, quiet. It was hard to think about anything but what lied ahead. In twelve hours, they’d either have enough food and water to last them a few months, or they’d be dead.

The game was held in a rickety old warehouse, a rusted chain-link fence enclosing a yard of cracked concrete and scraggly weeds. Already, lights streamed from cracks in the barred door, strands of music drifting out.

The rules were simple. There were only two, really: keep on the masquerade masks, and survive. The rich and the powerful owned the land now, and this ball was just another bout of fun for them. One room was packed with everyone desperate enough to wager their lives for supplies, and one unturned dead. If you lived, you were rewarded enough supplies to survive until the next ball. Easy enough normally. Hard when everyone was wearing masks that would cover the spots - the only way to tell who was dead and who was living.

They paused for a moment outside of the gate.

“We don’t have to do this,” Virgil repeated.

The others didn’t bother responding, just reached for each other and allowed themselves the rare luxury of holding hands, just for a moment.

“I love you all.” Patton’s voice wavered. “So much.”

Roman tried to laugh it off, but his voice was too weak in the lights of the warehouse. “We’re going to be fine, Pat.”

“Quite right,” Logan said stiffly. “We simply need to stick to the plan. Don’t lose your packs.”

Patton smiled half-heartedly. “I know,” he lied, “but still.”

It was Virgil who responded. “We love you, too, Patton.”

They stood together for just a moment longer, and then they let go.

There were almost two hundred people gathered into the ballroom, dusty and dim with the few sparse candles flickering dangerously. They looked ridiculous there with their tattered clothes, worn-out blue jeans and leather jackets just thick enough to maybe stop a bite. On each person’s face, a mask covered the bridge of their nose.

Almost two hundred people, yet one of them was dead.

A band was nestled against the far wall, plucking hesitant notes from various instruments. The stairs to the loft had been knocked out, and, upstairs, the real party was hosted. Barons of blood and Heirs of hand grenades milled about, sipping champagne and laughing. The new Nobility of the apocalypse was determined not by heritage but by wealth in weapons. Bullets were worth their weight in gold these days. If you were desperate enough, they’d grant you favors for loyalty. If not, you wound up here for their sick entertainment.

“Spread out,” Logan had commanded before they entered, voice a low rumble beneath the crashing waves of conversation that flowed outside. “Keep an eye out for irregular behaviors, and play along until it’s time. Remember: we don’t know each other.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Patton had managed a smile for them before drifting inside, practiced smile fixed in place.

Roman had followed shortly thereafter, departing with a quick kiss for each of them. Everything was so quick nowadays. When five seconds could make the difference between life and death, everything had to be.

Logan had waited ten minutes before entering, a soft “it’ll be fine, Virgil,” his only goodbye.

Virgil stood outside, trembling from cold and from fear. They needed to be here, but that didn’t mean he liked it. 

He slipped through the door, lurking in a far corner and eyeing the armed guards at each entrance. The name of the game was to act natural, but no one could really do that. In this world, death was five seconds away.

“Hey, stranger.” A voice startled Virgil from this thoughts.

Roman bowed low before him, golden and white mask shining against his dark skin. “May I have this dance?”

Swallowing down apprehension, Virgil took his hand. “You may.”

In the past life, Roman had been a performer. He sometimes told them about it, on the nights when they had been able to find booze and sat sprawled across each other in their sanctuary. His dark eyes glittered with excitement as he recounted his endless list of performances - plays and musicals and films. Virgil hated when those nights ended. It meant he had to see that sparkle fade.

“Just move with me, My Space-d out.” Roman’s hand radiated heat, warming Virgil down to his very core. He pressed just a bit closer. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t look Roman in the eyes. They both stared over each other’s shoulders, jaded eyes scanning for something, anything that could harm the other.

“Way to rub salt in the wound, Princey,” Virgil muttered, fighting down a jolt of fear as someone eyed them just a little too closely. “I miss the internet more than I miss showers.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about hygiene,” Roman laughed, spinning him slowly enough to scan everyone else’s weapons.

“Did you catch that machete red-head at six has?” Virgil turned them just enough to let Roman see. “Nasty.”

“I don’t know,” Roman mused, “our anniversary is coming up. I bet Logan would love it.”

Virgil snorted. “You can’t play the anniversary card every time you do something stupid.”

“Hey, if we never know what the date is, every day is our anniversary. Schrodinger’s anniversary, Dark-ling.”

“Does that really justify you running into a hoard to save that cat for Patton?”

“Mr. Fluffy Mittens is an excellent guard cat, I’ll have you know.” Roman grinned wolfishly. “And darling Patton was so _terribly_ grateful.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“What’s disgusting is your footwork. Have you never waltzed before?”

“Not if I could help it.”

They swayed together, pressed as close as they could manage. Roman was gripping Virgil almost hard enough to bruise, but Virgil didn’t complain. He imagined he was doing the same.

“Is it going to work?” Roman murmured lowly.

“I don’t know.” Virgil swallowed. “Maybe.”

Roman tried a smile. “We’ve worked with worse before.”

“Not by much.”

The guests were getting restless, the conversation swelling into a manic crescendo as the song ended. Virgil and Roman stepped back from each other, bowed, and retreated to the walls.

Virgil pressed his back into the creaking wood and tried to pretend it was safe enough.

Who is it? People milled around the room, shooting suspicious glances at each other. Virgil swayed on his feet, the flickering lights in the room melding into and out of existence. He couldn’t bear this. He had to leave.

But armed guards stood, stationed at each door.

_Who is it? Who’s going to kill us all? _ The laughter in the air was forced, smiles fake and conversations disjointed. How could you enjoy yourself, knowing the person next to you could snap at any moment and rip your heart out?

“Virgil?” Logan appeared at his side, concern wrapped around his shoulders. “‘You good, fam?’”

“All these people…” Virgil said faintly. “We never should have come.”

Logan’s eyes hardened, and he pulled Virgil to the side, hands clamped onto Virgil shoulders. “Virgil, you are as aware as I am that this mission is imperative.”

“I know, I just -”

“No. You don’t know, apparently.” Logan’s jaw tightened, and he pulled Virgil closer, murmuring. “We’re starving, Virgil.”

“I know,” Virgil said softly, “you know I am, too.”

“This endeavor is not for our benefit, Virgil. It’s for Roman and Patton.”

“I know. I just…”

Logan softened. “I know,” he sighed, regret flickering through his eyes for just a moment. “I know.”

He swept his gaze around the room thoroughly, trying to ascertain their momentary inconspicuousness, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Virgil’s, so quick and so soft Virgil may have almost imagined it. “You’re too good for us, Virgil.”

Virgil shifted, pressing the backs of their hands together. “More like too scared.”

“No.” Logan shook his head, almost smiling. “Not that. Never that.” He pressed the back of his hand closer to Virgil’s, until his warmth spread into Virgil. “Imagine I’m kissing the hell out of you right now.”

Virgil’s lips flirted with a smile. “Imagine I’m enjoying it thoroughly.”

Logan’s smile lingered in his eyes, and, so slowly as to be natural, he slipped away.

The party continued like a fever dream, hard, angry eyes staring out from behind glittering masks. Someone was mistaken for a zombie. Their body hit the ground with a wet thumb. The mask was taken off, and no yellow dots littered its skin. The rest of the party-goers swarmed on the killer, and their body joined the first. In their booth, the new nobility chuckled and nodded approvingly. Virgil saw Patton turn away as Roman slid a dagger out of his sleeve. The party continued.

Another body hit the floor. Another. Another. Another. Still, no zombie.

Virgil wondered it would be that would make the zombie snap. There was a killer in this room, and, any second now, it would start to eat. Sure, they’d take it down eventually, but how long would it take? Who was it?

That man, standing beside Roman at the edge of the dance floor, was it him? Would he suddenly dive for Roman, tearing his throat out with his teeth?

It could be the woman Patton was making laugh. Did she press a hand to her stomach because she couldn’t breathe or because it was gnawing, demanding food?

Could the person holding a conversation with Logan even hear him? Or were they just biding their time until the set of his shoulders relaxed just enough for them to pounce?

Was it the woman standing behind Virgil, eyes dark and haunted behind her glittering mask? Who? ** Who?**

_Well,_ Virgil considered as he saw Logan nod at him from across the room,_ it didn’t really matter. _ He reached inside his coat to grab the pack. They’d all be dead soon enough.

The pin of the hand grenade was cold and coppery in Virgil’s mouth. He clenched the handle down in his trembling hand. At the corners of his vision, he saw Patton and Roman doing the same thing.

It was Logan, however, who strode over to the band and murmured a few quick words. The tentative music cut off, and all eyes in the room slid over to him. He smiled, adjusting his tie as if he was in his life before and he was talking to his students. “Good evening, everyone. If you don’t mind, this won’t take but a moment. I am sure the vast majority of you are here out of desperation. Now, this… tradition is fraught with both danger and unnecessary carnage. The people to blame are before us. These new nobility pit us against each other, yet they do nothing to sooth our suffering. They pit us each other in the name of philanthropy.”

In the loft, the new nobility stared down at Logan. The guards at the edges of the room tensed, putting a hand on their guns. 

Logan smiled at them cooly. “That particular venture will not be beneficial to you.” His smile turned sharp. “My partners are more than prepared.”

Virgil lifted the grenade in his hand as Roman and Patton did the same. The partygoers nearest them began to stumble away, tripping over each other in fear.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” A man from the loft called, face flushed with champagne and indignation.

Logan turned his steely gaze onto him. “Securing a life for the people I love.” He raised his voice. “I suggest those of you that wish to live run.”

They did. Guards and partygoers alike swarmed for the exits, almost trampling each other in their rush. Virgil, Logan, Patton, and Roman were left.

“Tell us where you keep the rations,” Logan commanded, "or we’ll set these grenades off.”

“You’re bluffing,” someone else swallowed. “You wouldn’t.”

Logan spread his hands, shrugging. “Perhaps.”

Virgil let his fingers slip, just a bit.

“But it’s not my life, now is it?”

A duffle bag landed at Virgil’s feet with a thud.

Logan glanced at it. “Where’s the rest?”

“T-that’s all, I swear.”

Virgil’s blood boiled. “We didn’t come here for one duffle bag,” he snapped. “Where the hell is the rest of it?”

“That’s all of it! We didn’t expect anyone to win!”

Something in Virgil’s chest snapped. He reached his arm back and flung the bomb. For a moment, everyone froze, staring at the ticking projectile.

“Run!” Patton cried, grabbing Roman and pulling him towards the door, Logan hot on their heels. Virgil scooped up the bag and sprinted with them. Patton’s and Roman’s discarded grenades thudded to the ground.

They barely managed to clear the door when the building roared up in flames.

They stood outside, scared and dirtied, but alive. The fired from the building screamed with a magnificent heat, licking at them. The duffle bag swung from Virgil’s fingers, heavy enough. It would have to be.

“Well,” Roman said. “Shoot.”

“Yeah, my bad, guys,” Virgil winced.

“None of us are dead,” Logan said dryly. “At this point, that’s all I’ve come to hope for.”

The roof crashed through the building, going up in a shower of golden sparks. They watched with darkened eyes as the loft collapsed and the screaming began.

“You know, I wonder who the zombie was,” Patton mused.

“I didn’t like the looks of that guy who kept asking you to dance,” Roman said darkly.

Patton giggled, knocking their shoulders together. “I had my crowbar, silly. Not to _crow_ or anything.”

“You know,” Virgil said, as the cries inside the building died out. “I’m not sure there was one.”

“What do you mean?” Roman asked.

“It was all appearances. They didn’t have any reward; they didn’t have any zombie.” He shrugged. “They wanted to see us panic over nothing. They just wanted to be in control.”

“Oh,” Patton said softly then sighed. “At least it’s over.”

Logan reached for his hand. “Yes, it is.”

Roman took both his and Virgil’s hands. They stood there, together, and watched the world burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy all Hallow's eve eve!
> 
> Midterm season is STILL not over, so I doubt I'm going to be able to post the halloween thing I've been working on for this year, but it might crop up again eventually.
> 
> Thank you so much to every one who reads, bookmarks, leaves kudos, and, my favorite people ever - the commenters! Y'all seriously make writing such a fun, enjoyable experience. <3
> 
> roast me if you see a typo, Cowards.


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